My rock and roll novel Sick Of Being Me is just about to hit the streets.
Published by Askill Publishing, it is the 280-page dissection of the life
of Paul Hazelwood, a talented guitarist and songwriter who graduates from
council estate wannabe to member of a band whose second album is voted
one of the Albums Of The Year by Rolling Stone. He then makes the agonising
realisation that a return to the dreary everyday from which he thought
he had escaped is on the cards when his band progresses no further. Along
the way he encounters love, loss and heroin.

As with many literary debuts, Sick Of Being Me is not my first
novel at all but the archetypal entrée that makes its way into print
after several previous efforts have failed to. I sincerely believe that
those books – four in all – are as deserving of publication as (and that
one of them, in fact, is better than) ‘Sick Of..’ In fact, when I first
came up with the idea of what would transpire to be ‘Sick Of Being Me’
(originally ‘User’, until I found out there was already a novel of that
title), I didn't have the heart to actually embark on yet another full-length
novel only to have it rejected by an endless stream of publishers. The
initial intention was to write a suitably dramatic opening chapter and
an arresting synopsis in the hope that a publisher might commission a full-length
manuscript on the strength of it. However, once that chapter and synopsis
were written and the fish weren't biting, I found that I couldn't wait
upon my muse. As the standard rejection letters for chapter one made their
way to me, I decided to hell with it and to plough on with the story.

The list of previous rock and roll novels is not impressive. Somehow,
post-Elvis popular music doesn't seem to translate well to fiction. Even
when rock stars themselves attempt the task, it does nothing to dispel
the impression of two mutually exclusive artforms. Ray Davies’ ‘Waterloo
Sunset’ (1997) is no less prone to ridiculous caricatures, self-conscious
jargon and ostentatiously shocking depictions of excess than the work of
the average hack who has used rock as a – they imagine – suitably exotic
backdrop to a Harold Robbins-type bonkbuster. Though I must confess, using
the story of a heroin addict was originally a populist move by me after
years in the literary wilderness, the focus of the book soon changed. I
hope ‘Sick Of Being Me’ is a profoundly different beast to all the rock
novels published before. For me, it is a literary novel, one which just
happens to have feature rock and drugs in places.

When the book was finished, as with all my previous works of fiction,
publishers were prepared to say very nice things to me about it but not
to actually put their money where their mouths were. Nobody said it was
badly written, although a couple thought it too grim and overlong. However,
when I cut it down and jollied it up somewhat, it still didn't cause anyone
to make an offer. I also found (as if I hadn't learnt already) that quality
of writing is not the sole criteria for publishers anyway. Tony Lacey,
editorial director of Penguin, even told me that though he had read it
at one sitting at his kitchen table one Saturday morning and thoroughly
enjoyed it, he felt my pitch had been queered by Irvine Welsh, i.e., that
the public would not accept such a conventionally written narrative after
the more experimental style Welsh had used to explore similar themes in
‘Trainspotting’. Consequently, Sick Of Being Me has been released as the
first publication by the tiny Askill, as a print-on-demand paperback (one
is produced every time a book is ordered, reducing storage costs to zero).

Despite the modesty of Askill’s means, Sick Of Being Me is festooned
with the kind of cover endorsements many big-league publishers can only
dream of. This came about almost by accident. With publication due, I decided
to ask a musician friend of mine to read through the book to see if he
could spot any howlers: the last thing I wanted was for guitarists and
suchlike to write to me telling me that I'd got the technical details wrong.
Vic Briggs – now known as Antion Meredith – is a brilliant lead guitarist
who has played with, among others, Dusty Springfield, Brian Auger’s Trinity
and Eric Burdon & The Animals. I had interviewed him for previous books
on The Animals and Jimi Hendrix and he therefore seemed the logical person
to ask. Antion read through my e-mailed manuscript and to my pleasure reported
back that he found the whole thing very convincing. This turned out to
mean not only the music scenes but the material about drug dealers, some
of whom he’d had the misfortune to brush up against in London in the ’Sixties.
He also added that he thought I was “a very talented writer”. A lightbulb
popped on in my head. Weren't other people’s novel’s always covered with
such enthusiasms from authorities who had been given an advance look
at the manuscript? I wrote back asking him if he’d mind if his comments
were used for an endorsement on the book’s cover. Antion said to
go ahead. This prompted me to think of other people from whom a few exterior
compliments might help boost sales. I had recently interviewed journalist
Gary Valentine, the former bass player of Blondie and composer of their
hit ‘(I'm Always Touched) By Your Presence Dear’ about his punk memoir
‘New York Rocker’. We had got on quite well – partly because, in a shameless
piece of journalist’s back-scratching, I had given him copy approval of
my piece. I e-mailed him to ask if he would be interested in having a look
at ‘Sick Of Being Me’. Gary kindly agreed and a few weeks later I had another
satisfying cover endorsement under my belt.

Then I really went to town. Every music journalist has a list
of previous interviewees as long as both of his arms: speaking to one’s
heroes is a happily everyday part of one’s job. I decided to draw up a
list of music industry people from whom a cover endorsement might be a
positive sales factor. I sent them all e-mails asking if they'd be interested
in taking a look at a novel about their profession with a view to a blurb,
making sure to mention that I appreciated they were busy people and that
no hard feelings would ensue if they didn't feel like reading it. Some
declined. A couple said they’d see what they could do and then couldn’t
find the time to read it. Two came through: John Steel of The Animals and
Frank Allen of The Searchers. I also approached a couple of fellow
rock journos with whom I was in touch: Charles R. Cross, who had recently
interviewed me for a piece he was writing on the album ‘Are You Experienced’
by the Jimi Hendrix Experience for a magazine article on the same subject
(my book on the album appeared at the same time as his feature) and Richie
Unterberger, a well-known rock critic who seems to have written every third
review in that weighty reference tome ‘The All Music Guide’. Both liked
what they read and each provided a fabulous blurb. Charles’ endorsement
carried a particularly quotable sentence: “Where High Fidelity and About
A Boy were light and fluffy, Sick Of Being Me is dark but honest, though
it never loses sight of its pure rock ‘n’ roll heart”. There’s nothing
like dissing an acknowledged heavyweight in a broadly similar field - Nick
Hornby, in this case - to guarantee attention. Not for nothing is Charles
an award-winning writer (his biography of Kurt Cobain – ‘Heavier Than Heaven’
– carried off the ASCAP-Deem Taylor award for Excellence in Musical Biography).
I suppose it shows a certain egotism that it didn’t occur to me that anyone
who read the manuscript might not like it enough to offer an endorsement,
but, then, I was proved right.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my endorsers, all of whom took the
time in busy schedules to read the book and to then give a recommendation
through their own generosity of spirit - no money changed hands whatsoever.
Those endorsements, I feel, have made a huge difference to the book’s prospects.
At the time of writing, it’s too early to tell what the book will do sales-wise.
As a firm-sale book – i.e., a book that bookshops can’t return to the wholesaler
if it doesn't shift after a certain period – it is not going to be a stock
item in many bookshops but instead something that will only be ordered
when a customer requests it. Bestsellerdom is not on the cards – at least,
not unless a big publisher snaps up the rights from Askill. However, I
have noticed that those endorsements have served to magically pique the
interest of jaded review editors on whose doormats thump dozens of tomes
each week. At the time of writing, the first reviews have yet to see print
but they should start appearing in late October/early November in many
music monthlies and guitar magazines (the latter an unusual but logical
promotional target for a book about a man who sees his destiny as dependent
on the way he uses his Fender Strat).

Incidentally, if the above seems to suggest that being turned
down by publishers is something that an author good-humouredly accepts
as part of his lot, it’s not intentional. For a glimpse into the distress
and the humiliation involved in not being able to get a book you know to
be good into print, check out chapter twelve of ‘Sick Of Being Me’. In
a section which is one of the few autobiographical parts of what is otherwise
a work of imagination, I was able to draw on years of frustration
and unhappiness as a writer when dealing with the reactions of the Ragamuffins
– Paul’s first band – to having their demo tapes returned to them by uninterested
record companies. In a way, this chapter sums up the main message of Sick
Of Being Me: that little in life can approach the agony of artistic rejection.